Her Erasure
by Semaphora
Summary: A breakaway story from My Trigger. "What I remember is irrelevant; what I've forgotten means everything." AU, Jordan POV.


**DISCLAIMER:** Scrubs is owned by the fantastic Bill Lawrence and the ABC network (as of Season 8). I own nothing, except an overactive imagination and a fondness for angst, slash and men in laboratory coats. Lyrics are owned by their respective artists, and are credited underneath the A/N. I am completely convinced that Brad Wright and the producers of _Stargate_ own at least a third of this. Perhaps half. Either way, I owe someone money.

**AUTHORS NOTE: **This is a small, seemingly random character study of the life of Jordan Sullivan in My Trigger. I plan to do an interlude in her perspective after Chapter VI, but based on her visions as a whole. For now, this is a drabble based upon her words in the most recent installment, and how her visions come to her with a price—her memories. It's not necessary to read My Trigger before hand, but it's definitely recommended. Jordan is very different in this story than how you'd normally see her. For those who are already acquainted with this world, I hope this clarifies a few things. While leading to lots more questions, of course. ;) Enjoy!

Lyrics by _Björk (ft. Thom Yorke)._

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**HER ERASURE**

_I've seen it all, I have seen the trees,__  
I've seen the willow leaves dancing in the breeze—__  
I've seen a man killed by his best friend,__  
And lives that were over before they were spent._

The first time it happened, I woke up screaming. The walls closed in and I couldn't breathe, my hands flew to my neck as I struggled to unblock my throat. Everything around me fell to pieces at my feet, the pink of my bedroom evaporating into thin air. I couldn't remember getting up—I had been sleeping soundly in my bed—but apparently, I had. I turned to see the lace curtains of my window fade from view and the entire world become black. It was the scariest thing I had ever experienced.

Then, all at once, images began to fill the black. I had since embraced my gift as a part of me, something I had been born with and something I treasured, but this was nothing at all like the images I had seen. Some of the things I had seen were terrifying, others were beautiful—I remember cutting through vines and trudging through the jungle with a heavy bag on my back and gun in hand, poised to shoot at anything that moved, and I remember sitting on the edge of my throne with a smile across my face as I sent off an orphan girl to marry the man of her dreams. I remembered eating banquets and feasts fit for kings, and I remember being starved in a cell, small enough to be a modern dog crate.

Still, those images were something I had accepted, both the good and the bad. I had learnt my lessons, and I appreciated my gift...

The images surrounding me this time, however, were foreign.

I had learnt long ago the distinction between past and present, present and future and past and future. The past tasted like dust, collecting in my mouth—of thick ores and natural smells, of all things old and eroded, yet wise and humble. The present felt like flying effortlessly, or sometimes like digging through soft dirt. It crumbled beneath my fingertips as I created branches and tunnels in the soil. The future was a metallic twang against my ears, electricity rolling through the horizon and the systematic clanging of a machine brought to life. It was also like fighting against the tide, when I looked ahead. It was harder and harder to see, but definitely more rewarding. A name caressed my tongue whenever my visions chose to take me there, it was unusual, yet beautiful, and I uttered it even now in my mind, softer and softer like an echo in the distance—_Perry, Perry, Perry..._

His name was the only thing even remotely familiar in the mess of words, signs and symbols that crashed against my mind. When it first happened, I was only seven, and had yet to build up any sort of mental defense. I felt not unlike an open pipe—water flowing through me this way and that, something I could never stop. For a long time, I hadn't wanted to—until now. Because this Perry, the one I saw in my minds eye, was not the man I knew and—admittedly—loved, even in my childhood. He was different. _Changed._ I sensed a darkness in him, something that scared me, like the images flashing drilling into my skull.

The beauty of my visions were undone by these images, and their signature would stay with me forever. They tasted coppery, like blood or old pennies, and smelt like burning flesh. I resisted the urge to gag as they flooded across my field of vision. They felt brittle, rough, like they would draw blood at even the most sensitive touch. I cringed, begging my mind to close itself, to create a protective wall around me and _stop_ this carnage—_please._

But I couldn't.

And then I saw my undoing.

His hands were held high above his head, restricted to a metal pole by handcuffs. He was naked and gagged, large, open wounds running across his torso and his thighs. My initial embarrassment at seeing a naked man faded from my mind when I glimpsed upon his face, replaced with a raw, aching sadness I could feel through to the marrow of my bones. Blood poured from a wound across his head, bathing his face in red. I couldn't see his eyes—he had them clenched shut—but the gashes that ran down his anguished features were enough to tear my heart into two. I could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he heaved, until suddenly—he didn't.

"No!" I screamed. "NO! PERRY, _NO!_"

I scrambled for him, running as fast as my legs would take me... but no matter how far I ran or how quickly, I was far too late to do anything to help him. The image faded from view, but the sobs that took me didn't, even as the black returned to take me into its arms...

The next morning, my mind was flooded with knowledge. I could remember being shell-shocked in the trenches of World War I, worshipped as a goddess at the dawn of time, and watching the man of my dreams be brutally tortured before he finally died in front of me—but I couldn't remember my grandmother's smile, the name of my first friend, or what spread I liked on my toast. Memories I had taken for granted had been lost, forever. It felt like losing part of myself, something I loved...

It felt like death.

And from that day forth, I finally understood the imperfections of my gift.

Something I would _never_ forget.

_I've seen what I was, and I know what I'll be,__  
I've seen it all, there is no more to see..._

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**AUTHORS NOTE II: **Now all of you are going to hate me even more after reading this, but it was something I had to write. Absolution will come for Jordan, in the end, because I love her too much for it not to, and while I know I didn't really capture her voice in this story, I still really enjoyed writing it. I hope this clarifies even a small bit of what I meant when I said there were consequences of her gift, and I really hope you enjoyed reading it. Tell me what you think!

- _Exangeline._


End file.
